


Family & Secrets

by rhien



Series: Fifth Hare Universe [1]
Category: Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Fangirl-era canon, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhien/pseuds/rhien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During family weekend in their sixth year at Watford, Simon discovers something unexpected about his roommate. </p><p>** The AU of Magicath's The Fifth Hare story. (The Moon Rabbit-pages 135, 147, 273, and 370) of Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family & Secrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [almostwraith](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=almostwraith).



It was family weekend at Watford, and Simon Snow was hiding in his dorm room.

 _Not hiding,_ he told himself firmly. _Just taking a break, that’s all._

Simon had already said hello to Penelope’s mother (her hair was just as red as her daughter’s), and met Agatha’s parents, briefly. But of course, there was no one here just to see him. That didn’t stop everyone from staring at the Mage’s Heir, though, and sometimes he just didn’t feel like facing all the eyes anymore. This year felt worse for some reason.

When he was younger, he had hung around Penelope and her mother on family weekend – the two days in early September when students’ families could come to see Watford. There was a big dinner, a feast even, in the evenings, and the school and grounds were teeming—with parents, reuniting with old classmates and teachers; with younger siblings, creeping awestruck through the halls, watching the students show off their magic skills for the benefit of their families; with former students, returning for a weekend of nostalgia at their old haunts. After five years at Watford, Simon was familiar with these haunts, too—but he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to feel quite as connected as all these magicians who had grown up knowing one another, who knew each other’s families, who were mostly related to one another, however distantly.

They didn’t seem to mind him. Penelope’s mum even sent him a Yuletide gift every year. But of course, it wasn’t quite the same, and maybe he was just tired of intruding, however much he knew they would protest that he wasn’t.

So here he was in his room. Not-hiding. At least he was alone. Baz was off with his own parents. They didn’t come every year; Simon had never even met them, only seen Baz’s mother and father from a distance, a couple of years ago. So no doubt this was a big exciting weekend for his dear roommate. He’d been snarling at Simon all week to keep their room picked up, in preparation for this visit. Simon had tried—he _had—_ but at last Baz had thrown up his hands ( _literally_ thrown up his hands – the boy was ridiculously dramatic) and declared that Simon was hopeless and that he wouldn’t be caught dead showing his parents “the inside of this veritable midden.” (Simon had to secretly double-check the meaning of the word in an online dictionary.)

That really was an exaggeration—the laundry was neatly in the hamper for once, the floor was completely clear, and it wasn’t _Simon’s_ chemistry set that was simmering away at some concoction on the shelf above Baz’s desk, now was it? Simon had even made his bed this morning, just in case. But whatever. He was glad—at least it meant he would be left in peace here today.

Thankfully, he had something to occupy his mind, something he hadn’t told anyone about yet, not Agatha, not even Penelope.

Simon sat down at his desk and pulled out the note. He had found it slipped under the door a few days ago. Scribbled on heavy paper, it was a small square folded in half, the writing legible but hurried. The front was labelled _Simon Snow_ and on the inside were three lines:

 

_Only the hares can lead you to what you will seek._  
 _Seek the six white hares, here on the grounds of Watford._  
 _And seek out help_. _The danger is too great for one alone._

 

What I _will_ seek? That didn’t make any sense. And danger—well, duh, wasn’t there always? The promise of danger only made him less willing to seek out help, though. He didn’t want to put Penelope or Agatha or anyone else in harm’s way.

Maybe it was a trap. A trick. Or even just a joke. But he doubted it. His life at Watford was never that boring.

An odd sound broke through his thoughts – a high, clear voice, unfamiliar and just outside the door.

“Who’s that, Basil? She’s furry.”

 _Basil?_ Simon thought, and his stomach sank. _Oh no._

It _was_ Baz’s voice that replied, lower-pitched and more muffled, “That’s just Elspeth.”

“Why is she furry?”

“Because her father was the Witch King of Canus.”

Crap, crap, crap. No way to avoid Baz now. And who could that possibly be with him? It sounded like… a little girl?

“Does that mean she’s a witch princess?”

“I suppose so.” The door handle rattled as the key turned in the old-fashioned lock, and Simon shoved the mysterious note under a stack of papers and books on his desk. “Now, just a quick peek, and then we have to go down to the common area to wait for Father and Mother.”

“Will _he_ be here?”

“No, Ari, I told you….” These last words were clearer as the door swung open.

Simon gaped. Baz stood in the doorway, frozen for the moment, scowling—and two small children with curly brown hair and large brown eyes were clinging to his long gray trouser legs. The taller was a girl – she carried a rather large green bag slung across her body, and wore a long black wool coat, as did the smaller boy who was attached to Baz’s other leg. Both of them had red cheeks from the raw wind outside. They stared at Simon, and he stared back.

 

#

 

“No, Ari, I told you…,” Baz began as he pushed open the door to the room, and then stopped abruptly, as Simon made a liar out of him, just by sitting at his desk at the end of the room.

Baz scowled. He’d thought Simon would be out with Penelope or his girlfriend or _something_. Why did he have to lurk around like an absurdly attractive house sprite, always underfoot? Wasn’t it bad enough that Baz had to see him in classes, had to sleep here every night? Couldn’t he have a single afternoon in his own room without having to look at that heroic square jaw, without wondering how it would feel to touch that honey-brown hair….

 _Crowley_ , this crush was getting entirely out of hand.

The kids grabbed his legs, staring, and Baz sighed, exasperated with himself.

 

#

 

What on earth was _Baz_ doing with children hanging on him? Simon thought. And he noticed that Baz had one hand on the boy’s head, and the other on the girl’s shoulder. Protectively?

Children. Simon hadn’t been around small children much in a while. At the orphanage… he’d always liked the little kids, but they never really seemed to like him. He would share treats with them, try to help keep them out of trouble with the older bullies, but they had usually seemed almost afraid of him, as if he were a wolf in sheep’s clothing or something. At the time he’d just assumed that he wasn’t very likeable, that he must rub people the wrong way. Now he wondered if it had been somehow connected with being a magician.

Either way, _these_ kids were staring at him, but only with curiosity so far, or so it seemed.

The girl looked up at Baz, then at Simon, then back at Baz. Then she stepped forward, keeping just one hand holding the bottom of Baz’s knit vest.

“I’m Arachne Maralaine Pitch,” she announced, standing as tall as she could, which wasn’t very. She glanced back at Baz, but when he didn’t speak, she continued. “And this is my brother, Oleander Augustus. _I_ just turned seven.”

“This is Simon Snow, my roommate,” Baz said, finally recovering enough, it seemed, to speak. “Snow, these are my sister and brother, Arachne and Ollie.”

The girl looked up at him. “I just _told_ him, Basil.”

“I know you did, dear, but I’m supposed to make the introductions, because I know you both. That’s the way it’s done.” Baz pulled on one of her brown curls.

“Oh, yes, I remember now.” She turned back to Simon. “And now I say, Pleased to meet you, Mr. Simon.” She bobbed a little half-curtsy.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Pitch,” Simon said.

Her little brother reached up and pulled on Baz’s shirt sleeve, and he leaned way down to let the little boy whisper in his ear. He stood back up and said, seriously, “Ollie wants you to know that he is almost five.” Ollie nodded solemnly.

Simon wasn’t sure what to say, only that a response was clearly expected. “That’s pretty old,” he said. Ollie nodded again, still watching Simon.

This was _weird._ “Baz, you never told me you had siblings,” Simon blurted out.

“Why not?” asked his little sister—sister! Baz had a sister! What was next? A secret ambition to become a dentist? A heart?  

Baz looked a little sheepish, but covered it smoothly. “Not everyone gets to have such intelligent and attractive brothers and sisters at home,” he told her. “I don’t like to brag.” She smiled, and he continued quickly. “Well, you’ve seen my room now. We should go back down to the common area.”

The little boy shook his head, and the girl said, not whining, but tugging on Baz, “Can’t we stay? I want to talk to Simon Snow.”

“We don’t want to bother him.”

Simon almost laughed. As if Baz didn’t practically _live_ to bother him. “I’m sure they won’t be a bother at all,” Simon said, with a slight emphasis on _they._

“Oh, good.” The girl – Arachne – looked tremendously pleased.

Baz was looking at him poisonously. “Father and Mother…,” he started.

“They’re never going to come. Mummy was talking to Lady Fiore and they always talk _forever_. Can’t we wait here a while instead of in the smelly old common area?”

Simon snorted, fighting back a laugh. The common area _did_ smell sometimes.

Baz looked at Simon, then glanced at the clock on his desk. “Oh, all right, just for a bit. Give me your coats.” Baz helped Ollie with the large buttons, then carefully hung both coats over the back of his desk chair. Arachne put her bag over them herself, tugged on the sharply pleated skirt of her purple dress, and approached Simon where he sat in his chair, looking him over.

“Your hair isn’t very golden,” she said, accusingly.

Simon put a hand on his head, tugging at it. “Is it meant to be golden?”

“There’s a song,” she said. “You _are_ the Mage’s Heir, aren’t you?”

A _song?_ Simon’s mouth was hanging open again. For Crowley’s sake….

“He is,” Baz drawled, leaning against his desk. Ollie was still holding onto the bigger boy’s leg; he was wearing a miniature suit the same gray as their Watford uniform trousers, and he almost blended in. “But maybe the song exaggerates. Or maybe the lighting’s just not right.”

Simon was blushing now, but he tried to ignore Baz and focus on Arachne. “Maybe it’ll lighten up some time. I mean, are songs always right?”

She thought for a moment. “Maybe not. But the stories Basil tells us about you are true, aren’t they?”

“Stories?” He glanced up at Baz.

“ _They_ beg me,” Baz said, reluctantly, pointedly. “For stories about the Mage’s Heir, since he’s my roommate and all.”

He could _see_ him refraining from rolling his eyes, resisting the urge in front of the little kids. Simon hoped it gave him a headache.

“Did you really fight the chimaera together?” Arachne asked.

Simon nodded.

“What, didn’t you _believe_ me?” Baz asked her, clutching his chest in mock-horror.

She giggled. “You tell _good_ stories. But usually they’re story-stories, not real stories.” She turned to Simon again. “And you met the selkies?”

Simon nodded again. He could feel his ears getting hot. How many stories had Baz been telling them?

 

#

 

Watching Arachne interrogate Simon made Baz want to laugh—beyond loving to see Simon blush (and oh, he did love it, a little too much), it was so _her._ Her relentless questions were half the reason Nanny Trillian had first started begging him to help, to take over, just for an hour or two, please master Basilton, I’ll bake an apple pie for you all while you sit with them, a woman my age can only take so much chatter. And he would roll his eyes and agree; at first it was for the pies, but later he came to love those hours, sitting in the nursery with no adults, no one _watching_ , just two small children bickering and running about and basking in any attention their big brother would give them.

After he started going to Watford, after Ollie got a little older, and Arachne grew big enough to make specific requests (which didn’t take long, even though she had only been two when he started at Watford, and his step-mother had still been pregnant with Ollie), they would beg for stories about Simon, the famous Simon Snow, and even though it was the last thing he wanted (couldn’t he ever get away from his damned celebrity roommate, even during holidays?), Baz couldn’t bear to disappoint them.

It was also a good way to keep them quiet and occupied. He always felt a little nervous around kids generally, and especially his own siblings. Children were just so bloody fragile. And he was, well… a vampire. A monster. Too strong. Too dangerous. So he had to be on his guard all the time.

It was a thousand, a million times worse since this summer, too—since the bloodlust had begun, since every scrape and cut meant the scent of blood tantalizing him, since he would wake in the night dreaming of throats, since even stubbing his toe or hitting his funny bone seemed risky—the pain would obscure his mind and sometimes he would emerge from it with his fangs extended, and he would have to breathe through the rising, red, thoughtless haze, would have to will himself back into calm and control. Now he longed for the old days, when all he had to worry about was grabbing the kids’ wrists too hard when he was keeping them away from the pond in the gardens; or that he would accidentally throw them too high in the air while they were playing. Story-time was safer.

So he told them stories about Simon, but he’d never told Simon stories about them. Never even mentioned them to Simon, or really to anyone at school. Why not? True, he had to admit that he tended to be private and secretive in general, just out of principle (well, and necessity). They were too close to his heart to talk about much anyway, and he felt protective of them. Baz was always too busy being snarky with Simon to discuss actual meaningful things, even if Simon had been inclined to listen.

It had become a habit not to talk about them, to withhold that information and keep it inside like a glowing coal. It was nice… nice to have a secret that wasn’t awful, one that actually made him happy to think about.

 

#

 

Before Arachne could ask Simon more questions, Ollie suddenly spoke. “Basil—can we jump on your bed?”

His sister’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, please? We never get to jump on beds at home.”

Baz’s eyes flicked back and forth between the children and the bed. He started to shake his head. “It’s narrow, you might bump into each other and fall off.”

Simon offered, “Ollie can jump on my bed. It’s okay.”

Baz looked doubtful, but the kids’ dark eyes turned pleadingly to him, and he gave in. “All right, then, go on. Be careful.”

They squealed and scrambled and started bouncing, making small whooping noises and laughing. Baz moved over, nearer to Simon’s desk by the window—closer to the beds. He looked tense, as if he thought he would have to intercept small falling bodies at any moment. Simon got up from his desk and stood by him, mirroring him, without thinking much about it. Baz edged away slightly.

Under the cover of the noise, Simon spoke without really meaning to. “You’re so… so _nice_ to them.” He could hear the surprise in his own voice, and he knew immediately that his roommate wouldn’t like it.

Sure enough, Baz looked at him with disgust. “They’re my _little_ _sister and brother_ , Snow. I know _you_ don’t _have_ a family, but surely you can use your imagination or something novel like that.”

Baz said that sort of thing all the time. There was no reason it should bother Simon more now than any other time. Except that it was _family_ weekend and… and Simon felt the words burrow into his stomach, aching.

”Well,” he snapped in a low voice, “they have to live with _you,_ poor things. I can’t believe you haven’t just—just casually cursed them yet. Or something. It’s a wonder they’re even still alive.”

He braced for a sharp retort, for a snarky semi-monologue. Baz could pretty much always talk circles around him. He didn’t expect to see Baz’s face turn pale, the dark smudges under his eyes standing out like bruises. He surely didn’t expect to see Baz hunch his shoulders, and fold his arms—defensively, like he was hiding. Like he felt… afraid? Or guilty?

Simon was baffled. What was all this about? He hadn’t really meant it… he didn’t actually think Baz was _that_ evil. Probably.

“Sorry,” Simon said. 

Baz turned his face away. “Just shut up.”

“No, I am. That wasn’t fair. They’re your family, not your nemesis—it’s different.”

“Save it, Snow,” Baz said through his teeth.

Arachne suddenly bounced down to sitting on Baz’s bed and asked them, “Are you fighting?”

Ollie stopped jumping, too. Simon glanced at Baz, who stepped across the room to his desk, standing with his back to them all. When he didn’t answer, Simon kept his mouth shut as well.

The continuing silence didn’t daunt her. “Why?”

Baz was still quiet, so Simon shrugged and ventured, “Sometimes roommates fight about things.”

“Do you _have_ to fight?”

Simon sat back down in his desk chair and laughed—he couldn’t help it. Wasn’t he always asking Baz that exact question?

Baz looked at Simon as if he’d heard his thought, then at his sister, and his grey eyes went from haunted to amused. “Not right now, I suppose,” he admitted.

“Good. Let’s play something instead.”

“Play what?” asked Baz.

“I don’t know. _Some_ thing.”

“Oh ho, are you bored, then?” Baz raised an eyebrow and waggled his long fingers at her, threateningly.

“Noooo, don’t tickle me,” she giggled.

“Would _I_ do that?”

“Yes!” she shrieked, delighted, and ran behind Simon’s chair. “Simon Snow will protect me. Won’t you?”

Baz looked disgruntled. “Well, that is what he does.” 

Simon was saved from having to reply to any of this by a small hand tugging on his vest. He looked down at Ollie. “Do you have any toys?” the boy asked.

“Oh, not really. I’m sorry, Ollie.” The kid looked so disappointed that Simon cast his mind around furiously. “I do have….”

“What?”

“Um,” Simon said. “Some things you could look at.” He avoided looking at Baz—this could be a disaster—but knelt on the floor and groped under the bed till he found the small cardboard box he wanted. The kids pushed closer in to see.

“These are some things I’ve, um, collected.” This was certainly true—the box was half full of bits and pieces from the last five years. A blackened, broken key; an enchanted whetstone; a bottle of thrice-blessed water… quite a few things, now that he looked again.

He tried to surreptitiously block Baz’s view, but of course Baz saw and recognized the broken goat horn from the chimaera.

“ _Trophies?_ Really, Snow?” Baz’s voice was incredulous.

Simon gritted his teeth. “Just… reminders.” This was exactly why he kept them in a box under his bed, and not out on a shelf or something. Trust his roommate to see everything in the worst possible light.

Baz snorted but said nothing further. Simon pushed the box toward Ollie and said, “Here. Go ahead and look through them if you like.”

Ollie nodded and sat down, pulling out the conch shell the selkies had given Simon back in fourth year. Simon started to back away, but Ollie spoke up. “You sit here,” he instructed him, pointing. Simon obediently sat cross-legged on the floor beside him.

“Those aren’t really toys,” said Arachne, still standing nearby, behind Simon.

“I know,” said Simon. Ollie was handing him items—a dragon scale, a cold-iron athame, a set of broken reed pipes—to hold as he went through the box. “I don’t have any toys.”

“Not even a teddy bear?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t you _ever_ have a teddy bear?”

“Not really.” Not one he’d been allowed to keep, anyway.

“Such a _tragic_ backstory,” Baz murmured to the ceiling. Simon scowled at him briefly.

“Basil has Mr. Macavity,” said Arachne, leaning over behind Simon and putting her arms around his neck, still watching Ollie.

Baz turned bright red. “No, I don’t,” he said, too quickly.

“Yes, you do,” Arachne said, confident.

“Who’s Mr. Macavity?” Simon asked.

Ollie piped up, looking through the faery glass from the box, “He’s the Napoleon of Crime.”

“What?” _Napoleon of Crime?_ Wasn’t that a thing with Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty or something?

Arachne opened her mouth, but Baz jumped in before she could speak. “I’m sure I left him at home, Ari.”

She shook her head, firmly. “No, you didn’t, because I looked last week.”

“Ari—you’re not supposed to go in my room when I’m not there, you know,” Baz chided, but gently.

“I know, but Charlotte wanted to see Mr. Macavity, so I looked, but he wasn’t there. So you _must_ have him here, Basil.”

Simon was thoroughly confused. “Wait, who’s Mr. Macavity? And who’s Charlotte?”

“This is Charlotte.” Arachne ran to Baz’s chair and dug into her green bag. She pulled out a large plush spider, soft and pink, and brought it over, pushing it into Simon’s arms. “She is a writer _and_ a good friend. And Mr. Macavity is her _best_ friend, even though he’s the Napoleon of Crime. He’s Basil’s cat from when he was little, and he’s old, but he’s still a good friend, and she _misses_ him, so where is he?” She looked expectantly at Baz.

Simon looked at Baz too, imitating her wide-eyed face, not quite suppressing a grin. This was too good.

“I suppose I can look,” he said, reluctantly, shooting a quick glare at Simon. He opened the steamer trunk at the foot of his bed, and looked inside briefly, giving the contents a cursory rifle. “I don’t see him—”

He seemed about to close it, but Arachne had come up behind him, and she exclaimed, “There he is!”

Baz shut his eyes for a moment, then his shoulders sagged in resignation, and he fished out a floppy toy cat that had clearly seen better days. It was a faded color that might have once been a ginger tabby, and so threadbare that the fur was worn clean away in patches.

“Why didn’t you know he was here? Why is he locked up in the trunk? Don’t you love him anymore?” The girl looked horror-struck as she cradled the ragged cat in her arms.

“I….” Baz looked utterly trapped. Simon was biting the inside of his cheek, fighting back laughter, but he took pity on him, and tried to speak with a straight face.

“Arachne, didn’t you just say he’s the Napoleon of Crime?”

“Yes.”

“And that means…?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh! He never gets caught! So he must have been hiding and making his dastardly plans.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Simon held out Charlotte, and Arachne immediately took the two toys and sat on the rug nearby, murmuring, making them hug and talk to each other.

“Thanks, _Sherlock_ ,” Baz said sourly. Simon shrugged. He was never going to let Baz live this one down, though. Just wait.

Ollie had finished emptying the box. He looked up at Simon. “All done,” he said.

“Oh, yeah.” Most of the contents were lying in Simon’s lap—even the pig feathers that always settled to the very bottom. He started placing them back in; Ollie helped, and Simon had him push the re-packed box back under the bed.

“Good work,” said Baz, to Ollie of course. “What do you want to do now? Should we go outside?”

“It’s cold outside,” Arachne said, still playing with Charlotte and Mr. Macavity. Simon squinted at the window. Gray clouds were scudding rapidly across the sky.

“Towers,” said Ollie, decisively.

“What?” Simon looked at Baz.

“We don’t have any blocks here,” Baz told Ollie.

Arachne told Simon, “At home, in the nursery, Basil builds us big tall block towers. With _magic._ He makes them float. Can _you_ make blocks float?”

“I’ve never tried blocks,” said Simon. “But I can make _books_ float.” They had plenty of books in the room.

Ollie looked intrigued at the idea of a tower of books. “Please?” he said to Baz. “You sit here.” He pointed to the floor on his other side.

Baz sank down next to him. “You’ll have to help,” he told Ollie. “Go grab me some books from the shelves over there.” He gestured toward the built-in bookcases on either side of the door.

They fell into a rhythm, the children bringing books over (Arachne carried small stacks – Ollie just one at a time), Baz and Simon taking turns, gesturing with their wands and stacking them in unlikely formations. The tower of books slowly grew higher. The wind blew hollowly outside the window, but it was warm and mostly quiet inside.

“Good job, Simon,” said Arachne, in a hilariously patronizing tone, when he managed to catch one that fell and then float it back into place without knocking the whole thing down. Ollie nodded and patted Simon’s head, and then went back towards the shelves with his sister for another book.

Simon shook his head in wonder, saying quietly, “I can’t believe they like me.”

Baz cocked an eyebrow at him, as he nudged another book into place; the tower was well above their heads now. “ _I_ can’t believe they like you either, Snow.”

Simon rolled his eyes. But Arachne had heard at least part of this.

“Basil, why do you call him Snow?”

Baz looked at her. “It’s his last name.”

“I know _that_ , but he doesn’t call you ‘Pitch,’ does he? Do you?” she demanded of Simon.

“No, I call him Baz.”

“’Baz’?” She laughed, as if it were a silly name. “Why?”

“Well, he asked me to.” Simon remembered the first time they met—the cat, Baz extending his hand, Simon refusing it.

She turned to her older brother. “You did?” He nodded, focused on the tower at the moment. “Do you like being called Baz? Can I call you Baz, too?”

Baz blinked at her. “I’m not sure Father would like it.”

She cocked her head, considering, then nodded. “Anyway, it’s _your_ special name for him,” she said to Simon.

For some reason, Simon blushed again. He wanted to protest—surely Baz’s cronies called him that, or other kids at Watford… but he couldn’t think of any offhand, most people called him Basil or Pitch…. So he just shrugged. “I guess.”

Arachne nodded as if that settled things.

She turned to go back to the bookcase again, and Ollie handed a book to Simon. Baz was levitating _The Grace of Language: Elegant Spellcasting_ up to the top of the tower, when the door to the room abruptly opened.

Everything suddenly happened very quickly and slowly at once. Simon looked up and saw a man and woman, dressed quite formally, in the doorway. Baz’s wand hand gave a sharp, involuntary jerk, and the book in the air flew to the side of the room.

And hit the chemistry set on the shelf above Baz’s desk.

The book ricocheted back and hit the tower, sending all the volumes toppling to the floor. The glass vials and beakers shattered, and orange liquid hissed and sprayed into the air, across the room, over the papers on the desk, the pile of books on the floor, the rug…

Simon didn’t know what that stuff was, but he automatically grabbed Ollie to his chest and turned him away from the spattering liquid. Arachne was on the other side of the former tower, nearer the desk, and Simon caught his breath, but Baz—Baz moved faster than Simon had ever seen before, _faster_ than the flying liquid, ducking between the girl and the desk, one hand dragging her behind him. It splashed on the front of his clothes and hit him in the face, and he made a very brief, very unpleasant sound.

And then there was silence for a split second, except for a little trickle of fluid dripping off the desk, bubbling and hissing on the rug.

Time seemed to start again. Ollie whimpered in Simon’s arms. The woman at the door gasped, rushing forward and kneeling. “Arachne! Are you hurt?

“No, Mummy.” Her voice was a little shaky.

Baz had immediately stepped back, stumbling on the books, but regaining his balance quickly. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

“Basil?“ The woman—their mother—looked up at him, concern all over her face. Her dress was a deep blue, and matched her eyes. Her hair streamed down her back, dark blonde, and she wore a diadem with a jewel hanging down over her forehead. She looked quite young—but Simon didn’t have a very good sense for those sorts of things.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Baz muttered. There was a cut and an angry red welt on his cheek, and his hands were clenched into fists. His mother stood up, one arm around Arachne, and reached a hand out, but he took another step backward and said, “Fine,” again, looking at the floor.

Ollie whimpered again, and Simon stood up, urging him over to his mum, where he pressed his face into her stomach.

“Oh, Ollie dear, there there. Quite a shock. Are you all right?” Ollie nodded. His mother hugged the small shoulders, looking at Simon.

Then the man in the doorway spoke. “What is going on here, Basilton?”

 

#

 

Baz’s cheek was burning, it _hurt_ ; he could feel the fangs sharpening in his mouth, and he fought back the haze, focusing on the chill of Father’s voice. At the same time, he cringed inwardly, curling in: _Oh gods, I did it, I really fucked up this time._ Too careless, too startled by the sudden appearance of his parents, and then he'd been forced to move unnaturally fast— _inhumanly_ fast—to avoid hurting the children, to keep Arachne safe. In front of Simon, in front of everyone. In front of Father. He’d been so cautious, for years and years now, and especially since this summer.

Had Father ever seen him do that before?

 

#

 

Simon studied Baz’s father. He was very tall, taller than Baz, with brown wavy hair, streaked with gray. His eyes were dark like the younger children’s, but Baz had the very same nose and eyebrows. The man stood very straight—it made Simon’s back twinge just to see him.

Baz began to stammer an answer. “We were just….”

“Playing towers,” said Ollie, suddenly, sounding a little scared. Simon caught his eye, then winked at him. The boy looked puzzled, then he relaxed, smiling a bit.  

“And why exactly did you think any of this was a good idea, Basilton?” His father’s gaze trailed over the disaster of books and shards of glass and orange goo, then back to his oldest son, who met it for a moment, grey against brown, and then dropped his gaze.

“I—“

“There’s been no real harm done, Tyrannus,” said their mother softly. She gazed intently at the pile of books on the floor and nodded, murmuring “ _Cleanliness is next to godliness_.” The diadem on her head glowed faintly white: the books floated gently back to the bookshelves, and the glass and orange stains on the rug disappeared, leaving only a rough burnt hole where the liquid had pooled at the edge of the desk.

“That,” Baz’s father said (and his _voice_ – Baz’s frostiest tones had only ever been a pale imitation: south England winter against the Antarctic), “is hardly the point.”

Then what is the point? wondered Simon. Why is he so worked up? If worked up was even the right term—he was standing there stiff and cold—but obviously displeased.  Just the surprise of what had just happened?

This wasn’t the ideal way to meet anyone, that was for sure, especially the parents of your roommate/nemesis.

Arachne seemed to be feeling better. Certainly better than Baz. She looked back and forth between Simon and her parents, then said. “It’s my turn to introduce. Mummy, Father, this is Simon Snow. Simon, this is my Mummy and Father.”

Simon didn’t think offering to shake hands would be particularly well received, so he nodded his head and said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Pitch.”

Baz said, in a low voice, “Lord and Lady.” He still wouldn’t look at Simon, or anyone in the room.

“Oh.” Simon felt a surge of annoyance. How was he supposed to know? “Lord and Lady Pitch.”

Lady Pitch inclined her head elegantly and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Simon Snow. Basil has told us about you over the years.” Lord Pitch merely nodded curtly, looking at him coldly—and was that warily?

Simon glanced at his roommate. That mark on his cheek looked vicious.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Baz? Your face—”

Baz glared at him angrily. _Oh, did I embarrass you in front of your family? For crying out loud,_ Simon thought. But he didn’t want to fight just now.

“Sorry, Baz.”

The parents stared at him. “’Baz’?” said his mother. Her voice was merely puzzled, but her husband’s eyes narrowed.

Arachne volunteered, “It’s Simon’s special name for him. Basil likes it, he asked him to call him that.” She smiled at Simon, and his mouth turned up in response, even as he rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.    

“Well,” said Baz’s mother, and she also smiled a little. “Thank you for helping Basil with the children today, Simon. Shall we go now?” she asked her husband.

He shook his head. “Delphinia,” he said, stepping into the room, “please take the children downstairs. I need to speak with Basilton.” He looked at Simon. “Privately.”

Lady Pitch looked between her husband and son, then straightened up. “Perhaps you could escort us to the common area,” she said to Simon.

“Uh… sure.” Simon didn’t particularly want to leave Baz alone here. Clearly his father was going to ream him for this, and that was so unfair. It was an _accident_ , for Crowley’s sake; it had been Simon’s idea to use books to build the tower to begin with; and besides, they’d had to amuse the kids somehow, hadn’t they? No one was hurt – well, no one but Baz. What was his dad so upset about, anyway? But he didn’t know how to refuse.

The kids collected their coats, and he held the door for them and Lady Pitch, watching Baz out of the corner of his eye.

“If you would close the door behind you,” Lord Pitch said. Reluctantly, Simon did, and led the others down the stairs.

Why should I care if Baz gets in trouble, he thought. Isn’t that what I’m always trying to do? Get Baz in trouble? But he had looked so… alone, standing there in the middle of their room. Pale, face marked, that straight black hair and those guarded grey eyes, nothing like the rest of his family… alone. And it just wasn’t fair.

 

#

 

Baz watched the children, his stepmother, and Simon file out of the room. Simon kept _looking_ at him. Does he know? Baz wondered. Does he understand what he just saw me do?

Alone in the room with his father, Baz stood straight, waiting. Father walked in silence to the window and looked out at the grounds, at the gray sky.

He expected Father to begin berating him at any moment. Something about _protecting the Pitch family at all costs;_ that was one of his favorites. And _Control is everything,_ he would say, just like he’d said every day since Baz could remember, and that was a long way back. Well… every day since he’d brought Baz back from the Watford nursery, barely four years old. After the vampire attack. After Mother had died.

After Baz had been bitten.

He remembered.

He remembered lying in a crib, feeling indignant because he was too _old_ for naptime, too _big_ for a crib now that he was _four_ … He remembered the shutters were closed and the nursery dim, even though it was afternoon.

He remembered being suddenly surrounded by dark figures, remembered one grabbing the front of his jumper and lifting him like he weighed nothing, less than nothing; remembered his clothes tearing; remembered hot breath on his neck and shoulder and then pain, it _hurt_ , and he couldn’t help it, he was crying, even though he _was_ four; he struggled but it didn’t help, and he cried, and then there was a cold hand squeezing his mouth hard, painfully, and they were forcing him to swallow something that tasted salty and metallic and nasty, and he was still crying, ashamed that he couldn’t seem to stop….

He remembered being dropped onto the floor, and how that hurt, too; remembered hearing babies crying all around the room…

Remembered seeing Mother, suddenly, at the door, holding her wand aloft and lit, the wand that was his now; he couldn’t quite remember her face, but he remembered her grey eyes looking into his for just a moment, he remembered hoping that she didn’t see he had been crying…

He remembered seeing Mother’s straight black hair flying as she threw fire at the vampires, as they lit and blazed like oil-soaked cotton, screeching. Like torches all around the room, but there were more shadows, more shadowy figures, there were always more, and too many….

And then Mother—

He couldn’t think about that now. He had dreamt about it all, every night for years, and it was terrible. And now he didn’t anymore, hardly ever, and that was almost more terrible.

Father had swooped in, the very same day, he must have been visiting the school, and took Baz with him, home to the estate. Baz didn’t know if anyone had recognized the torn wound on his shoulder, if they had seen the red at the corners of his mouth.

He hadn’t understood what it meant then, of course. He had had a fever for three days after, but that might just as easily have been from shock and trauma, and anyway he had known nothing then. And after he recovered, nothing much seemed to have changed. Even after he learned more, read more, discovered what surely had happened to him that night (not night, afternoon, but in his memory it always felt like night)… the thirst was still years away, it didn’t manifest until adolescence. If he was a little faster than other children, a little stronger, or a lot—it was nothing he couldn’t hide. If Father vilified vampires, well, nothing made more sense for a man whose wife had been recently murdered by them. If he was a little overprotective, a little controlling, or a lot… that wasn’t strange either, after such an incident.

 _Control is everything._ Before Father married Delphinia, and after, this was his mantra any time he and Baz were together. He did not tolerate emotional outbursts. He made Baz do various practices: standing still and straight for hours, holding ice cubes tightly in his hand for as long as possible, copying dozens of lines, perfectly – one mistake and he would have to start all over. He talked unceasingly about the honor of the family, about protecting the family name, about Baz’s responsibilities as the heir. And he kept close watch over him—not personally, Father was often gone; but Baz was never permitted to leave the estate without an escort. When Baz would sneak off to the neighbor’s apple orchard, when he was caught by their groundskeeper, he almost couldn’t breathe, he was so afraid Father would find out. Old Colin hadn’t reported him, that had all turned out fine, but the anxiety of it…. Never knowing what exactly his father knew.

They had never acknowledged anything. Maybe they never would. And maybe Father didn’t even realize there was anything to acknowledge. Maybe everything had happened too fast just now, with the chemistry set, for anyone to recognize. Maybe Baz’s secret was still safe.

 

#

 

“Well, here’s the common area.” Simon gestured around at the couches and study tables in the small hall. Ollie, who seemed to have recovered from his scare, walked over to the heavily grated fireplace and started feeding it chips of wood from the woodbin next to it. Arachne, though, put a hand on her mother’s arm.

“Mummy, is Basil in trouble?”

Her mother smiled at her. “Your father just wants to talk to him, dear.”

“Is it our fault?”

“No, dear, of course not. It was an accident.”

“Then why is Basil in trouble?”

Simon looked at her. He was wondering the same thing.

“I’m not sure, dear.” She sighed. Arachne waited a moment, then went to join Ollie by the fireplace. As she wandered out of earshot, Lady Pitch said, very softly, not looking at Simon, “Sometimes his father is very hard on him.”

Simon didn’t _think_ she meant physically—he’d seen kids who’d been regularly beaten in some of the foster homes he’d been in, and none of the Pitches acted quite like that. But he still felt… uncomfortable.

“If you’d excuse me, Lady Pitch,” he said, in the most nonchalant voice he could muster, “I need to, uh….” Crowley, he had no excuse ready. Why couldn’t he ever think things through first?

“The hall washroom, perhaps?” She said it gently, but her gaze was clear and knowing.

“Yeah.” He started up the stairs. If Baz’s own mother wouldn’t help him… well, it was all at least as much his fault as Baz’s, and maybe he could at least interrupt them or something….

           

#

 

Father was still standing by the window, gazing out. The clouds were ash and pearl, dove and steel, swirling and chasing across the sky. Baz waited, noticing the ticking of the clock on the desk, the sound of the wind, seeing that Charlotte and Mr. Macavity were still tucked under Baz’s covers where Arachne had left them. Where were the recriminations? Finally, Baz couldn’t take it anymore.

“You _told_ me to take care of the children for a while. Sir. We were just entertaining them. It was an accident.”

 _“You_ can’t afford accidents, Basilton.” His father paused. “The heir of the Pitch estate can’t make these kinds of careless mistakes.”

Which kind? The kind where my wand hand slips? Or the kind where I move a little too fast to be human? Which does he mean? Baz was too afraid to ask.

 _Or perhaps it’s bot_ _h,_ he thought bitterly. It would be so much simpler if I could just hate you.

“Still reckless,” his father said. “Sixteen, and still so irresponsible, so thoughtless.” He shook his head. Wouldn’t even look at Baz. “Quite the disappointment.”

Baz closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think it, but the words boiled in a screaming whisper under the surface of his skin anyway: I know, Crowley, you think you have to tell _me,_ I know I’ve disappointed you my whole life, _sometimes you can never win, no matter how hard you try, you can’t not fail,_ I _can’t not fail, not since I let them turn me, not since I didn’t stop them from killing her, I’m sorry, so sorry, and it doesn’t even matter, some failures are so complete that nothing ever matters again…._

Then his father spoke again. “Your eyes… are the color of this sky.” A long pause. “So were your mother’s.”

 _Your mother’s…_ Baz’s heart sped up. They had never talked about this, never. Were they really talking about this?

“Did it begin this summer?” Father’s voice was quiet, but not soft. It was still cold, still empty of any emotion. He might have still been reprimanding him.

Baz wasn’t sure his legs would keep holding him up. _He knows. He’s known all along. Or has he? He knows now, regardless._ He’d never even _thought_ about talking about this with his father. He had no impassioned questions, no half-rehearsed speeches. He had never, ever thought it was possible. And so now, he could only stare at him, feeling woefully, idiotically unprepared, and nod.

Father nodded curtly, turned, and walked back toward the door, turned and stood again, facing Baz and studying him, up and down, his hands behind his back.

Baz held his breath, wondering what he would say next.

“The question, for the moment, is whether we should withdraw you from Watford.”

 

#

 

Simon arrived at their door, ready to… what? As usual, he didn’t have a plan. _Baz is right, I should really try having a plan some time,_ he thought. He was a little hesitant to face those cold, dark eyes again, and so he stopped, just short of touching the door handle, to try to think of something.

And heard Lord Pitch say, “The question, for the moment, is whether we should withdraw you from Watford.”

 _NO_ , thought Simon, and it echoed in his head so loudly that for a second he was afraid he’d spoken the word out loud. He knelt down and looked through the large keyhole into the room. There was a look of shock on Baz’s face, but he was staring at his father, whose back was to Simon, and gave no sign of having heard anything from the corridor.

Baz couldn’t leave Watford, he couldn’t. Who would be his roommate?

That was ridiculous. There’d be someone else, or Simon would get to have a whole room to himself, and wouldn’t that be amazing. Peace and quiet and no one haranguing him at every turn.

But… the Mage had said, back in second year: The Crucible cast you together. _You’re meant to watch out for him._

That was also ridiculous. Baz would laugh at him, he could practically hear it: I can watch out for myself, Snow, thank you ever so kindly.

He’d been trying to get Baz expelled for years, and it wouldn’t feel like he’d _won_ if Baz’s father just pulled him out.  

Was that it?

He pulled out his wand and breathed, _“Walls have ears.”_ He wasn’t going to miss a word of this. He pressed his eye to the keyhole.

 

#

 

“The question, for the moment, is whether we should withdraw you from Watford.”

After a moment of shock, Baz’s first clear thought was, _NO._

He didn’t say it aloud though. Not yet. He didn’t trust his voice not to shake.

 _Leave Watford?_ It wasn’t that he hated home. And he did miss Arachne and Ollie—they grew so fast lately, and letters couldn’t make up for that. But… leave Watford? Everything here was a little simpler, a little more comfortable. A little more… free. Here he could wander in the forest and climb trees, laugh with Dev and Niall and the rest, study fiercely to become the best magician in the school (and maybe, someday, out of it)… and there was Simon, of course. Even if that _was_ hopeless and stupid.

He couldn’t leave Watford.

“What good would that do?” he asked, carefully keeping his voice even. He had to be rational about this.

“It would keep others out of harm’s way,” said Father, then hesitated. “It might keep you out of harm’s way.”

Me?

Is he actually concerned… about me?

Baz had always tried not to think about it… but underneath, part of him had always assumed that Father must not know, couldn’t possibly know about him. Because if he did, he’d have already sent Baz away, to the Coven. To protect the family name. Especially now that he had other children, other potential heirs. And because—Father _hated_ vampires. The look on his face whenever the topic came up… well, Baz wouldn’t have been inclined to bring it up anyway, for obvious reasons, but that look. It was the look of a man who would happily go out and hunt vampires for the rest of his life, if he could. And Baz could understand that. Baz might want to help him.

This, though, he was trying to understand this. If Father _knew,_ if he had _always known_ … what did that mean? Baz used to secretly read the news articles every year on the anniversary of the attack on the nursery. He’d read how vampires couldn’t have children, that they had to turn them, and the writers of the articles had talked about how they must have wanted magical children, that they’d be more useful to them.

Never allowed to leave the estate alone, watched almost constantly…. Baz had never made the connection, the connection that his father must have made—that they might be _looking_ for him, that they might have tried to take him as a child, if they knew about him, if they’d known that they’d succeeded.

Unwillingly, he thought: _how must it feel to send a child to the school where you almost lost him? Or maybe you did, and he’s just not quite gone yet._

Am _I lost?_ Could he ever be a real Pitch, the true heir, when he was also a vampire? Baz didn’t know.

This was all conjecture. He couldn’t assume it was all the truth. He still couldn’t imagine talking outright with his father about any of this. And he still didn’t want to leave Watford.

“It’s safe here,” he said, watching his father’s reaction carefully. “And there’s my studies.”

Father raised a sardonic eyebrow, and Baz smiled just slightly.

“I’ll be careful. I can do better,” he said, quietly. He could see a little flash in Father’s face—of hope, and also of doubt. Well, he’d always known that his father didn’t trust him much. And he _was_ still a vampire. Nothing could ever change that. But that look of hope—it gave Baz hope, too.

Finally, Father nodded. “One slip-up…” he said warningly.

“I know,” said Baz, concealing irritation, and also triumph. He would stay at Watford.

He had only a minute to exhale in relief before his father spoke again. “And another thing.”

Baz braced himself.

“About your roommate.”

Baz was thoroughly confused for a moment—what _about_ Simon?

“You’re clearly getting too familiar with that boy.”

For just a second, Baz thought he might break down laughing hysterically. Not nearly as familiar as I’d _like_ , he thought foolishly, despairingly. “What do you mean?” was what he said out loud, keeping his face neutral.

“Nicknames. Spending too much time together. And he saw you.”

Baz was fairly sure his father was overestimating Snow’s powers of deduction. “I don’t think he….”

“This is not something you can just make assumptions about.”

And yet that’s all I’ve ever done with you, Baz thought.

“He is the Mage’s Heir, the Mage’s creature. You must not forget that.”

“But—”

“He is dangerous to you, Basilton.”

Miserably, Baz thought, _he’s not!_ He’s _Simon_. But he knew it wasn’t true. Simon was the good guy, the white hat, the hero, and don’t good guys fight monsters? Don’t they _kill_ them? Despair welled in his chest, not for the first time.

And then, he also suddenly realized what his father must have thought: seeing _Simon Snow,_ _the Mage’s Heir,_ watch his son moving like a _vampire._ What his father must have felt.

And Baz spoke without thinking, a little fiercely, his heart torn with hopelessness on both sides.

“I can be dangerous, too.”

His father looked at him, intently, and when he spoke, it was only barely a question.

“Dangerous—to the children?”

 

#

 

Simon listened, and watched, but everything they said was terse and odd. He couldn’t understand what they were referring to, and wished he’d come up earlier, or hung behind somehow.

He refused to admit to himself the magnitude of his relief when Baz’s father seemed to relent on the subject of Baz leaving Watford. And then they were talking about _him_ —Lord Pitch obviously didn’t like him, and it sounded like it was because he didn’t like the Mage either.

“He is dangerous to you, Basilton,” said his father, and for a moment, it almost sounded like he gave a crap about Baz. But Simon couldn’t imagine how he could be particularly dangerous to _Baz_ (who was by far the scarier of the two of them). Or why he would want to be.

“I can be dangerous, too,” Baz said, but he sounded the opposite, he sounded like he was yearning, and he stared at his father like he wanted to reassure him.

Then, then his father said, coldly, matter-of-factly: “Dangerous—to the children?”

And Simon saw Baz collapse.

Not literally. He stayed upright, but he swayed slightly, and the color just drained out of his face, the welt on his cheek standing out luridly, and his eyes went dark and almost dead above bluish hollows, like he was guilty, like he was giving up, like he was losing everything….

Simon couldn’t just watch.

He shoved the door open, and strode into the room. He felt like his face was afire with anger. Lord Pitch swung around to face him, and Baz stared at him like he’d never seen him before.

He couldn’t think of a good excuse, so he simply told the truth. “I came to check on Baz.”

They each raised one eyebrow the exact same way. A synchronized performance.

“And I heard what you said just now,” he continued, looking straight at Lord Pitch. “We don’t always… get along, Baz and I. But if you think for a _second_ that Baz would ever hurt those kids—well, then you obviously don’t know your son at all.”

He clenched his jaw, ready for anger, for an explosion of ice—he could see Baz out of the corner of his eye, looking horrified and bracing for the same—but, oddly, Lord Pitch looked very slightly… relieved? Simon decided to continue. “I watched them together today and… and I’ve never seen anybody who loves his little siblings that much.”

He glanced at Baz, who was staring at him incredulously, his mouth hanging open slightly. Simon wanted to roll his eyes at him. It was true, it was so _obvious_ , as plain as feathers on a flying pig, even _he_ could see it. And nobody had ever loved Simon as much as Baz loved those two kids.

Baz’s father took a step forward, his dark eyes boring into Simon’s. “Do you make a habit of listening at doors, young Snow? One wonders what you must hear.”

Simon clenched his fists and stood his ground, refusing to break eye contact, and refusing to apologize. “Not a habit, no,” he said.

Lord Pitch gazed into his eyes for a few more seconds; Simon didn’t know what he saw there, but whatever it was, Simon could see a little more of that same relief. He stepped back, still looking wary, but relaxing a bit.

Baz was staring at Simon, looking suspicious and mulish and angry, really angry. I’ll hear about this later, thought Simon, but he didn’t care. I can be stubborn too, he thought at Baz, staring back.

Just then there was a little knocking sound, and all of them turned to see Arachne standing in the open doorway, Ollie just behind her. _Someone who knows how to knock first,_ thought Simon. _What a concept._ Lady Pitch was just approaching from down the corridor.

“I forgot Charlotte,” Arachne said. “And Mummy says it’s nearly time for tea now, and are you and Basil finished talking?”

Baz’s father nodded. “We are finished,” he said, and strode out the door. Simon saw Baz’s shoulders slump a little—in relief? In regret? Both? For just a second, Simon had to admit to himself that not knowing who his father was was probably _simpler,_ anyway.

Baz seemed to shake it off, and looked down at Arachne. “Here, you left Charlotte tucked in with Mr. Macavity.” He gestured to his bed.

She collected the spider, and handed the cat to Baz.

“Maybe you should take him home with you,” Baz said, his cheeks coloring slightly. “So Charlotte doesn’t miss him so much.”

Arachne shook her head firmly. “No,” she said. “You need him.”

Baz sighed, and Simon said, managing not to sound choked, “Yep, he can help with your dastardly plans.” Baz glared over his sister’s head at him, and shoved the cat under his pillow while she wasn’t looking.

“Can Simon come have tea with us?” she said suddenly, eagerly, looking up at her brother.

Baz’s eyes widened in consternation, but Simon grinned and saved him the trouble. “Thanks, Arachne, but I can’t, I have some things to do just now.”

She frowned, and said, “When will we see you again, then?”

Now it was Simon’s turn to feel surprised. “I don’t know. But any time you visit Watford I would love to see you.”

Ollie pushed in and hugged him around the middle. “Thank you for playing with us, Simon,” he said, politely.

“Thank you for playing with _me,_ ” Simon replied, and he’d never felt more sincere.

Arachne had more demands though. “Will you have more adventures so Basil can tell us more stories when he comes home?”

Baz and Simon’s eyes met for just a moment over her head, a moment of amusement and understanding, and… not friendship, exactly. But a moment, just the same.

“Yes, I’m sure I will,” said Simon, thinking of the note on his desk. _Six white hares._

“Good,” said Arachne, and she hugged him, stuffed Charlotte into her bag, and grabbed Baz’s hand, dragging him towards the door. “Come _on,_ Basil.”

“I’m hungry,” said Ollie, leading the way.

Simon watched them, fighting back a laugh, and also envy.

“Hey, Baz,” he called.

Baz looked back at him, his free hand ready to swing the door shut behind him.

“You are so lucky,” Simon said.

Baz glanced at his brother and sister, and then met Simon’s eyes. “I know,” he replied. 

**Author's Note:**

> This started as just a little snippet gift for almostwraith on tumblr, as a thank you for letting me use some of her Baz and Simon headcanons. Then it got out of hand. I hope you like it, almostwraith!


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